Decade
by Pixagi
Summary: [Rewritten]How long is ten years? [OneShot][PreSlash]


**_DISCLAIMER: I do not own Harry Potter or any associated characters. This story is purely fan-made and I in no way am associated with JK Rowling or Warner Bros. Studios. No profit is, or ever has been, made from this story._**

_**A/N:** I have finally gotten around to rewriting this story. It's still rough in parts, but I hope everyone will find that the story runs smoother, and is indeed much better now. Enjoy 3_

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Number Twelve Grimmauld Place was still save for the only living resident of the manor that once housed the prestigious family Black. It had been a good ten years since the last man carrying the Black name had owned the house, though it didn't show. It had been fixed up and repaired since and now resembled the grandeur it once held.

However, this failed to truly represent the houses current owner.

While the house no longer looked its centuries old life, it's sole occupant, only twenty-five, carried himself like a senile old man. Dark circles around his eyes and gaunt features were a testament to the last ten years, four of which had been spent fighting, strategizing, loss, and death. The last six had been spent grieving, digging, burying and rebuilding.

No longer did he sleep, laugh, cry, or truly live anymore. Once vivid, fierce emerald eyes were now a dull, nearly lifeless, pale color; skin once golden with a natural tan was now a pale, beigish sickly hue from his adopted hermitic tendencies.

This was what had become of Harry Potter, Boy Who Lived to Kill the Dark Lord, Savior of the Wizarding World. This is what was left of one of the most brilliant symbols of Light, Justice and Hope; a frail, half mad man sitting in his kitchen bent over a journal he scribbled in furiously.

He tended to go through two or three a week, jotting thoughts and ideas day and night when he wasn't busy with other things. His hair was now longer then he had allowed while attending school and hung limply around his face, matted and dirty as he hadn't taken a shower recently; the limp, greasy strands a shadow of the wild, thick locks of his youth, thick stubble taking up residence on his chin and neck, his clothes oversized and stained.

The picture of deteriorating mental health, he muttered as he wrote, the words running together indistinct and incoherent, making absolutely no sense to anyone, even himself.

Was it really a wonder, though, that he had become such a wraith? The closest thing to a family he had ever had was torn apart, ripped away from him just as he had been able to obtain a firm grip on the idea. First, it had been Sirius, just as the idea of living with someone who cared for him truly set in. Then, the entire Weasley clan save for Charlie was gone. Tonks, Remus, Dumbledore, McGonagle; all dead. Half of his classmates had met their end in one way or other. Some deaths were epic, like Ron's who died protecting Dean Thomas from a dementor. Others, like Fred's were uneventful. Even more, like Seamus', were mysterious. And amongst those, there were many that had merely disappeared without a trace. It was speculated that that most of them had been captured and tortured by Death Eaters, defected, or simply had gone into hiding.

Of the ones who lived, there were some surprises. Neville Longbottom shocked everyone the most. He seemed to find himself in the war and caused a severe deficit in the Death Eater's ranks by poisoning their food and water supplies with the four classic poisons; hellebore, hemlock, deadly nightshade and aconite. He wasn't proud of the deed, but did what he must. He had also developed several poisons, one of which was used to coat Godric Gryffindor's blade, the sword that Harry used in battle.

Hermione had also shown her prowess in battle, using her vast vocabulary and intellect, going as far as to invent and improvise spells on the fly which greatly added to the arsenal of attacks the Light side could use.

In the end it was a show down between Harry and Voldemort. Using the trick he had learned at the end of his fourth year, Harry was able to time his spell perfectly as to link his and Voldemort's wands, as had happened at the end of the Tri-wizard Tournament. With the connection made, distracting the Dark Lord, Harry had enough time to pull out his small revolver.

The greatest human rights offender on the planet, a man known for his hate of all things muggle, a man who treated such people as less then dirt, the greatest, most terrifying wizard of the 20th century killed with a handgun made by that which he made it his life's work to destroy and enslave.

A bullet to the head, and the war was over. A bullet that Harry had actually inscribed the letter "T" into the tip of.

And thus, with the death of Harry's only true equal and great nemesis did Harry himself begin to fall apart.

While most of the survivors of the war found a deeper companionship in each other, becoming a close family of sorts, Harry couldn't share in it. The whole thing felt untouchable to him. They all still seemed to expect him to be their glowing pillar of strength. It was a roll Harry couldn't and wouldn't take. Hermione seemed to understand and she and Harry kept in close touch. She even went as far as to round up a group of people together to help renovate the Black Manor for Harry as the first part of reconstruction. While he had been deeply appreciative of the gesture (and utterly shocked by the presence of Snape), it did little to abate the feeling of utter loss in his soul.

Over the years he started losing track of his mind's processes, random thoughts and ideas he had a hard time understanding popping in and out of his head. It took a year for Hermione to pry it out of him, but when she did, Hermione thought that maybe he should keep a journal. The next week she was utterly astonished by how much seemed to pour out of the boy's, no, man's mind.

"That isn't even the half of it." He had told her at the time.

So, it had become a weekly deal. Harry would continue to jot down every thought that entered his mind and Hermione would work to make sense of it all. While she rarely was able to decipher Harry's writings, they made a good excuse to see each other regularly (he secretly thought it was so she could check in on him, though he didn't really mind. It became his only grip on the real world) and a great conversation piece for some of his writings were quite humorous. This Harry had begun to grip onto. While others attempted to try and pull Harry out of his self inflicted solitary confinement, Hermione was the only one who had been able to keep up what she had set out to do, realizing that what Harry needed was not someone to pull him out, but for someone to _come in._

Harry had also found it curious that Snape and Draco had taken to occasionally drop in on him. They had both seemed so intent on making his life hell in school and now seemed to be making attempts at saving him from himself. Snape had, in his own subtle, snarky and sarcastic way apologized for the way he had treated Harry for the fives years before the war. He even went as far as to explain why he had treated him the way he had. In short, Harry's assumption that Snape was judging Harry by his father's actions was only a small part of Harry's treatment. There was also the misconception that Harry had been showered with love, affection and constant praise for being the boy who lived. When he had realized the reality of the situation his pride had taken over as did the front he had to keep up just in case the whispers he'd been hearing of the Dark Lord's return proved true. Harry and the old Potions Master had managed an odd friendship that was mostly spent slinging insults and criticisms at each other. At least, that had been the case at first. Harry's ability to retaliate waned as he fell deeper and deeper into himself. While the aging man hated to admit it, he was growing more and more concerned for the young man. He went as far as to brew several different potions, but with Harry's altogether refusal to take them they all came to naught.

And then there was Draco, who unlike Snape had tossed his ego to the wind and had a massive breakdown in front of Harry that ended with Draco's face buried into the dark haired boy's lap and sobbing out his life story. This had happened during the war after Draco renounced his family and his name, taking the maiden name of his mother who had been murdered by his father; Black.

This single incident had formed a tight bound between the two young men. They watched each other's backs throughout the remainder of the war and for some time after that. In fact, there had been quite a few times when Draco had accompanied either Hermione or Snape on their visits to see Harry.

_In fact,_ Harry mused to himself, _he never comes to see me on his own…_

To compile curiosity upon curiosity, Harry's doorbell range clear through the overall quiet of the house.

_It's three in the morning, who in their right mind would be awake at this hour?_ Harry thought to himself as he made his way to the door, the irony of the thought not lost on him.

He opened the door and low and behold, who was standing on the step but Draco Black, the literal last person that had been on Harry's mind.

"Hello Harry, I figured you'd be up still." Said the tall blond. No longer adorned in the expensive wizard fashions of his old school days, Draco was dressed in straight leg jeans, a white shirt and a black blazer.

Harry merely nodded and stepped aside, closing the door as Draco stepped in. The blond cast a worried glance to his friend.

Harry, seemingly not noticing the look started back to the kitchen. "You're alone."

"So it would seem." Draco responded, following the dark haired one into the kitchen.

"You never come alone."

"Yeah, I suppose I usually come with Sev or Hermione…"

Harry stopped and turned to the blond, making direct eye contact with him "You never come alone." While the stare wasn't malicious in any way, it was extremely disconcerting for the blond to stare into the almost dead eyes that were staring back through the round spectacles.

"N-no, I suppose not."

Harry released him from the gaze seeming to be thinking about something then turned back toward the kitchen continuing on his way. "You never stutter either."

Draco was silent as he entered the kitchen. Spotting the book he peered at the writing. While there were parts where Harry's tight scrawl became impossible to read, there was enough legible writing for Draco to catch the gist of what Harry had been writing last. He looked up at the man who had gotten a kettle of water going for tea. "What made you think about the war?"

"What doesn't?" was the his very matter-of-fact reply. It made Draco want to cry to see the boy who used to beat him bloody in a rage while in school now simply shrug at everything said to him.

Ten years, was that really so long?

"Good point. When's the last time you've bathed?"

Harry stopped moving and started counting off his fingers. "Five, maybe six days."

Apparently, ten years was forever.

"Why are you here?"

The unprovoked question threw Draco off, making him gape for a moment as he attempted to quickly gather his thoughts.

"I-I wanted to see you. I worry about you, you know."

"At 3am?"

"Especially at 3am." Was Draco's quiet reply.

Harry turned to Draco, once again catching him with those eyes, silent and piercing. This time it was Draco who looked away, unable to hold the gaze.

"You came for something." Harry said.

"What makes you say that?"

"People."

"What?"

"People don't visit people at three in the morning just to see them. You could have waited until tomorrow, or Friday when Hermione comes to see me. Why now? Why alone."

This was the most Draco had heard Harry say at once in a long time, years even, and he wanted it recorded, saved in case it never happened again.

"People don't always stick to the norm, Harry." People like you, Draco had almost said, but held his tongue.

Somehow, it seemed, Harry had managed to pick up on what wasn't said. "Sane people do."

"You're not insane, Harry."

"Bullshit."

An uncomfortable silence fell between them that wasn't broken until the tea kettle whistled. As Harry turned to take care of the tea, Draco sat down and started flipping through the pages of the journal. Had anyone else but Snape, Hermione or himself done the same thing they'd likely be met with a frying pan to the head. However, at least in Harry's mind, the three aforementioned wizards weren't considered "most people", at least, not in that respect. They were the only ones with even an inkling of what went on in Harry's twisted, contorted mind. This fact both terrified and comforted Draco.

"Why do you always come with someone else." Harry asked quietly while setting the tea cup in front of Draco.

Well, that was unexpected.

"Why do you never come alone? Are you afraid of me? Well, no, that wouldn't be quite right, unless you suddenly stopped being afraid of me. Or is it a matter of convenience? Do you only come when someone asks you to come with them? Is that it?"

Draco was almost tempted to allow Harry to believe that, though he knew he'd never forgive himself if he did.

"I'd never been afraid of you, Harry. At least, not since we were in school. And I'd never deem you an inconvenience. Never."

"Then why is this the first time you came on your own?"

Draco stared, lost in his own thoughts for a moment.

"I was scared, but not of you."

"What?"

"I love you, Harry."

"…Oh…"

Draco bowed his head, staring down at the tea that stood untouched.

"I can't love you back. I'd like to…but I can't."

"I know, Harry."

"I'm sorry."

Draco looked up and gave him a sad smile. "It's okay."

"No it's not."

Ten years later Draco would look back on that moment and cherish it for the rest of his life, but right then he just wanted to dig himself a hole, curl up and die in it.

Ten years later and Harry Potter would have found his way again, reclaiming much of the boy who used to laugh carelessly with his friends, the boy who fought ferociously to protect those he loved, and those he didn't.

Ten years later this chapter in his life would be long past closed and he'd once again be able to hold up a relationship and interact with the world, be able to step outside and smell the world around him.

But right then, Harry just wanted to find a way to express his feelings in a way that didn't sound false and hollow.

**-End-**

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_**A/N:** There you have it, there it is, the re-written version of Decade. I hope you found this very much improved from the original, very rough version. If not, feel free to point out to me what needs improvements in a review._


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